


the stars came falling on our heads

by jmcats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I swear it's a happy ending, M/M, a dedication to pining zayn, an excuse for meaningful moments, and the stages of liam, canon AU, slight angst, sort of songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:10:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>and it’s not until later, in the same bed, he realizes everything in his life moves quite backwards because you’re supposed to fall in love first before someone can break your heart but </i>Liam<i> – he makes Zayn feel that way: heartbroken just before falling head over heels.</i></p><p>(Re: Their lives might be changing - and Liam might be too - but there's something constant: Zayn <i>can't</i> fall out of love with him)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the stars came falling on our heads

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely based on 'Samson' by Regina Spektor and it's a small ode to two boys relationship throughout the years and how they've always been - _right next to you Liam_ \- inseparable.
> 
> This fic is utterly self-indulgent because I needed something to write to soothe my spirit. Just a little something sweetly selfish and I hope that's not a bad thing. I just love fics about the growth between two friends. It's simply an _in-between_ fic for me until I figure out what I want to write next.
> 
>    
>  _Dedicated to anyone who's ever waited for the one you were in love with to finally love you back._

 

 

 

And when the world finally asks him – after this warm spotlight turns to glittered dust and the ache beneath his bones to be _normal again_ finally, finally subsides – what – no, it’s a _whom_ and it’s a loud, loud sound in his brain – he can’t live without, he’ll already know his answer.

The thing is, he’s known it longer than he’s ever truly thought of it.

 

|+|

 

But things such as this – admitting you’re in love, recalling the first time your heart fell out of rhythm, the way you can’t shake the way this feeling fuses itself to your marrow – should be said over candles and rose petals and written across the sky with a _‘will you marry me?’_ attached.

Not as a whisper.

Not as a whimper.

Not from far, far away with big eyes and a dry mouth and sweat across your palms because the thought _just won’t stop_.

Yet, that’s how it’s always been between them: something quiet and something important and the kind of buzzed out sensation that crawls beneath your skin until you can’t quite shake it. It’s a whisper of fingertips casually brushing and a whimper caught in his throat when a strong baritone says his name and everything outside of them is far, far away.

 

|+|

 

And that thought just won’t stop.

 

|+|

 

_you are my sweetest downfall._

He’s eighteen and in a hotel he won’t remember in a few years, with a brilliant view of the Pacific and the Los Angeles coastline. The moon is painting the sand a quiet silver with palm trees swaying like Sunday dresses. He hates the water but loves the soft hush it creates outside the window and his skin raises every time the wind shifts westward instead of east, a gentle reminder that they’re nowhere near home anymore –

And that this thing – a _career_ , Louis calls it even though they haven’t released a record or shot a music video on location or are even recognizable outside of _that boy group from the X-Factor_ – is real now.

It’s somewhere in the middle of April, a little after midnight, with the stars larger than the ones in London and the world a dull static of white noise now and the five of them stuffed into one room – the way they like it – with boxes of leftover pizza tiling the floor – with their favorite toppings and half-eaten crusts as the remains – and two beds for five boys drunk on a new life.

They’ve kept a constant rotation of every season of _Friends_ on the telly until Harry dozed off and Niall started snoring and Louis couldn’t fight sleep, even though he passed out with a riotous bang rather than a soft whisper like Harry did. And the world gentles out with all of their even breathing and warm bodies and, honestly, _content_ feels so appropriate over his tongue when he looks at them.

Zayn refuses, can’t dissolve his smile when he peeks a look to the other bed. Not with Harry and Louis curled around each other, Harry’s lips pressed to the hollow of Louis’ throat coaxing sleepy grins from his mouth and fingers twisted like _‘hold on, this is the exciting part of the rollercoaster’_ and legs tangled because they’re so _obvious_. Their neon bright stares and constant inside jokes and the symmetry of Harry’s arm around Louis’ shoulders fits so much more lovingly than when he tosses one around Zayn’s waist. They play oblivious even though they smile secretly for each other and tell dumb jokes and they’re nothing like Liam and Zayn are –

He stops on that because –

There isn’t a _Liam and Zayn_. Not in that particular way.

Not at all, even.

He bites at his lip and watches Niall with his bed-ridden hair still that shockingly pale blonde and his cheeks a summer pink, like they always are, and he’s at the foot of the bed, curled around their ankles like a sleeping lion. He’s nothing but motoring snores and heavy sighs and pizza sauce stained around his mouth and a cartoonish mustache scribbled across his upper lip because Zayn and Louis couldn’t help themselves – _‘partners in crime’_ Louis had said with a fist bump and a Sharpie and Liam giving them that disapproving look he always puts on whenever Louis has an idea and Zayn goes along with it.

And _Liam_ –

There’s something that always hitches in his nervous system and wrecks his quite regulated breathing and he still feels like an idiot for the _‘a bit of a bromance between me and Liam’_ he stammered out in front of ten million too many viewers.

Still, Zayn presses firmly into the headboard shoved against his spine with his knees pulled up and a notepad full of unfinished lyrics resting against his thighs and his helpless eyes keep staring at the boy occupying the other half of his – _their_ – bed. He’s lying on his stomach on top of the wrinkled sheets with his bare feet kicking in the air and a copy of _the Sinestro Corps Wars_ in front of him and Zayn loses his breath on the twist of that smile Liam holds so naturally, _accidentally_ –

And he scribbles down more lyrics that describe crinkled eyes and soft, soft cheeks and full lips and eyes that are a docile brown like maple trees.

Liam smiles up at him, suddenly, with thick fringe falling in his eyes and his tongue stained from their shared bag of red vines and Zayn wears a hole into his paper with the tip of an inky pen just that quickly. They trade those nervous smiles like they did when they first met at a McDonald’s, sharing chips and childhood dreams until Zayn’s cheeks ache and he looks away. He bites roughly into his lip and shoves his feet beneath the thick duvet to stop the shivers from the cold – not from the _Liam_ that’s rushing through his blood and stirring his organs into a disorganized mess. But Liam’s fingers catch around a bare ankle and his thumb strokes out a familiar rhythm to the bone until Zayn evens out like the calm waves rippling outside their window.

“Hey,” Liam says, low and hoarse from twelve hours in the studio recording bullshit songs that they pretend to love because _‘we’ve made it boys, we actually have’_ echoed from Harry’s lips on every other take.

“Hey you,” Zayn says back, a little choked, a lot embarrassed because his cheeks flare a satiny pink and he can’t shake the teenage hormones that soak his lungs.

Liam snickers, flicks his head to knock some of the hair out of his eyes and Zayn’s in awe for three whole seconds at the way the moon smudges abstract shadows over his cheeks. His smile is a little lopsided, just a tiny bit goofy and crooked but it presses something sweet to Zayn’s lips until he’s snorting and ducking his head.

“What are you writing?” Liam asks, pushing onto his elbows and stretching all of the tendons in his neck for a closer view.

Zayn blurts out a noise, painfully shy, and hides the notebook – the one drenched in horribly saccharine lyrics that are nothing like the broody and quiet lad he’s practiced in the mirror for hours – beneath one of the plush bed pillows. His eyes stay focused on the muscles in Liam’s shoulders and the caramel spot of a birthmark and the long line of his neck and he tries to laugh off the curious raise of Liam’s thick eyebrow just to capture Liam’s attention for a little while longer.

“Nothing,” he mutters, trying to hide the shameful blush and the tremble in his voice. It sinks into the shadows while Liam grins, tilting his head as if to admire Zayn.

“Stop it, you idiot,” Zayn laughs, dulling his voice when it unsettles Niall’s breathing and Louis kicks aimlessly at the blankets to sink further into the cocoon Harry’s body makes for him. “You look manic.”

Liam pulls a face and Zayn wants to take back the words, _needs_ to until Liam tilts up a lazy grin and his thumb presses something kind into his Achilles’ heel.

“You know we’re gonna be in loads of trouble,” Liam warns, still mastering that smirk that levels Zayn without trying to.

Zayn grins, nodding back. His shoulders drop into a loose fit and he knocks a knee to Liam’s shoulder. “Staying up past bedtime like we’re kids.”

Liam giggles and sighs pleasantly before turning a page in his comic. “Paul will be right arsed if we’re too knackered in the morning for warm-ups at the studio or nod off in the booth.”

“We’ll blame Louis,” Zayn offers with wriggling eyebrows and a haphazard grin that pushes roughly at his cheeks.

The soft, wavy blue undertones of the telly while Ross shouts _‘we were on a break’_ glow a faded neon over Liam’s gentle cheeks and his sugary pink lips stretch into that wobbly smile he always wears – when he hits the right note during practices, when he figures out a crossword puzzle answer, when it’s just him and Zayn – and the trembles that move up Zayn’s arms shift down through his muscles and coat the lining of his heart. He watches Liam crawl up the bed, shoving the comic book to the floor with fringe falling into those almond eyes and his nose twitching like he’s nervous –

Or _excited_ but Zayn knows better.

He absolutely knows there’s nothing about himself that could excite Liam.

Zayn budges over to make room but Liam follows, nudges their hips together and drags the height of his smile over Zayn’s shoulder with no words to explain the dimples or the crinkled eyes. Just a strong arm sliding around Zayn’s nervous shoulders and a nose pressing coldly to the skin of his neck for a brief moment – and the goosebumps that follow never seem to cease, not with Liam this close – before Liam’s laughing and slouching against the headboard with him.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Liam smiles and it sounds like it does every time he says it – gleeful, amazed, caught in the funnel of a tornado. He turns his head a little and Zayn wants to look away but the moon catches his irises and the outline of a board jaw stills Zayn’s breath and his heart hammers out something vague, unfamiliar by sound.

“You sound great in the studio, man,” Liam sighs, his grin widening and wrinkling his nose. His eyelashes flutter, that hesitant twitch to his lips that gives him away like he’s thinking too hard. It swells unconsciously in Zayn’s blood and the stars burst behind his own eyelids until, even in the dark, he can see the way Liam glows.

He blushes, hides it in Liam’s resilient collarbone with his dry, chapped lips brushing smooth skin and his fingers, absently, skimming up the nape of Liam’s neck to dive into the thick hair. It’s soft, soft and it almost curls at the ends – like it does when he gets out of the shower, with a wild mane flicking droplets down smooth shoulders and tight skin – and Zayn sort of likes it that way. His thumb outlines Liam’s skull and, under the roar of the television, he thinks he hears Liam mewl out a content noise but he’s not sure. Maybe it’s the ocean – or the unsteady call of his blood surging through his veins.

“I don’t,” he mumbles into Liam’s neck but his smile is unforgivable.

Liam grins into Zayn’s undone hair, giggles and his spare fingers rub at the beaded bracelet around Zayn’s wrist they all bought together on the last tour. It’s some sort of good luck charm – or a quiet reminder of hotel rooms and Liam always kicking Harry out of the bed so he could press a smirk to Zayn’s shoulder and sing him to sleep because Zayn was never comfortable on foreign sheets, cold pillows, lumpy mattresses.

“You’re an idiot,” Liam says softly with a laugh attached and a thumb pressing just under Zayn’s wrist and Zayn swallows the helpless plea for him not to because he knows Liam can feel the pulse, the flicker of his heart through his veins.

“Oh shut it,” Zayn says as a disguise, as a diversion with sharp teeth marking the lower tendons in Liam’s neck.

“Both of you shut it,” Louis grumbles, half-turning with heavy eyes and stacks of fringe in front of fluorescent blue eyes and Harry snuggling even closer, “before I wake the Nialler. You lot know how he is, even after a two hour kip.”

There’s a warning in his voice that they only give partial reverence to because Louis is, if anything, hopelessly vulnerable when exhausted but his threats are sworn promises that they dare not cross.

Not without a cavalry or a _Plan B_.

“You’ve woken the beast,” Liam teases, ducking his head a little and the outline of his jaw – with its fine stubble because Liam is still growing into his body, his maturity – presses sweetly to Zayn’s temple.

“S’not Tommo I’m afraid of,” Zayn chuckles, the noise choked and broken but it still echoes into Liam’s skin. “It’s definitely Haz.”

Liam snorts and nods, tightening his hold around Zayn’s taut shoulders.

Something relaxes deep in his cells, the adrenaline from working through songs on the van ride back to the hotel and one of the producers dedicating an entire _hour_ to perfecting his solo behind the glass booth fading off and he breathes in the heady citrus body scrub Liam loves, lets it seep into his marrow.

Liam nudges his chin up with gentle knuckles and he’s wearing that incredibly dumb, goofy grin with slits for eyes and a tilted head. There’s an almost embarrassed shade of pink to his cheeks and Zayn stutters on a breath –

And he quickly tries to cover it but Liam is so – _undefinable_. There’s not enough words and even Harry wouldn’t be able to find a synonym on that stupid dictionary app on his phone for the crisp color of Liam’s eyes or the fullness of his lips or the sound Zayn’s heart makes when his fingers brush Zayn’s biceps.

“One day,” Liam starts, so close and if Zayn was brave enough, he’d kiss him. He would. “One day, man, we’re gonna be smashing it. Across the world. You and me and those three idiots.”

“You and me,” Zayn whispers, wincing at the way it sounds but Liam, he breathes out something sweet and smiles like he gets it, even if he raises his eyebrows and bites nervously at his bottom lip.

“Yeah,” he says, under a breath, fingers biting into Zayn’s skin, “you and me, man. It’s gonna happen.”

Zayn grins and tries not to read into all of the double meanings, the definition between the words, the way it sounds like a _promise_ in the most affectionate way.

The way it sounds like they’re talking about more than the music and the sold out stadiums and the Brits they haven’t yet won.

He quiets those thoughts – _dreams_ , really, because _it’ll never, ever happen Malik_ – and anchors himself to Liam until he’s too knackered, too worn to fight the sleep anymore. And Liam hauls him closer, like he always does, and shoves a grin into Zayn’s hair and Zayn noses the hollowed collarbone until his eyes go heavy.

He falls asleep to Liam’s placid tenor voice, the one he uses playfully to disarm and assault Zayn all at once, and tries to memorize the song he’s singing but he knows he’ll never be able to.

Not with his heart beating this loud but he tries.

 

|+|

 

He wakes somewhere in the middle of the night with Liam wedged up to his spine, an auxiliary arm thrown over Zayn’s hip and their toes kept warm by a snoring Niall – and he doesn’t remember when Niall crawled into their bed but he knows his lungs constrict around the way h's certain this is _their bed_ – and the television muted.

There’s a smile smoothed against the highest knob on his neck, shaggy hair tickling his skin, and his own fingers tighten into the sheets when he thinks about it. They flex and curl and his entire body relaxes against Liam. He’s floating but still so heavy against these strange sheets and it hits him –

It’s just four words and they imprint into his bones until he thinks of that one song his older sister played for hours after her first real breakup.

And he can’t help but think of Liam and the world gets a little smaller on the _‘I loved you first’_ sitting at the back of his throat and singlehandedly ruining him just that quickly.

 

|+|

 

_your hair was long when we first met._

 

|+|

 

He’s pressed against the bathroom door of a hotel suite over a year later, their tour buried somewhere in California, and there’s three other boys on the other side begging him out but he absolutely refuses.

He _can’t_.

They’re insanely exhausted from the last show even though they chased each other around the stage with manic laughter and Harry serenaded Niall – even though they all knew he was singing the words to Louis – and Liam scooped him off his feet for a hug that sunk deep, deep into his muscles long afterwards and he utterly couldn’t resist brushing the bare of his fingertips over Liam’s cheek during his solo for the encore. All of the adrenaline and the dopamine and this inescapable energy barely hidden behind their smiles is dusting away and he thumps his head against the door with Liam’s stolen plaid shirt hanging loose off his shoulders, halfway unbuttoned, and it’s just not enough.

He wants _more_.

His teeth chew his bottom lip raw while Louis rattles knuckles against the door from the other side and he sinks a little further down the hard surface to escape the way he can’t stop looking at himself in the mirror – his quiff fallen, his skin still shiny from sweat, his eyes a bit dilated from that last smile Liam shot him before disappearing into the hallway for a phone call from Danielle, the sleeves of the shirt shoved up to his elbows, his sock-covered feet slipping on the tiles, the lights set on a low setting. He swallows and groans and he wants out of this skin –

No, he wants away from this heart. The one that beats _jealousy_ and _need_ and _unresolved_ and _unrequited_ and unnecessary emotions into his blood.

Shaky fingers push into his thick hair, going sticky from the last of the wax and hairspray and he sighs at the sound of Louis’ loud, loud voice echoing through the wood.

“Is this how you’re gonna tell him? In a fit of rage?”

Zayn knocks his head to the door again, wincing, and he just wants out. He wants a rooftop and a luxuriously purple sky and the sands of an unknown beach in his view and a cigarette between his fingers.

He waits a whole breath before Harry speaks up, “Tell him _what_ Lou?”

He sounds smug and they all know – well, except Liam.

Louis has known since that second week of recording, watch the subtle fingers brushing Liam’s knuckles in the back of the van and the way Zayn helplessly _stares_ at him from across the studio, even if Liam doesn’t notice. And Harry’s known since that first night of the tour and ten seconds after _What Makes You Beautiful_ ended because Zayn couldn’t stop smiling into Liam’s neck and dragging his fingers up his spine and reciting quotes from Dickinson under the roar of the crowd – and Liam never heard a single word of it, at least Zayn doesn’t think he did.

Niall, with his crooked grin and oblivious ways, knew at Judge’s House before Zayn realized he was only calmest when Liam was around and held Liam’s hand just before their first performance and crawled into his bed with stacks of comic books and hot tea when Liam was absolutely _sick_ over missing a few notes during practice.

Louis clears his throat, knocks a little harder against the door, kicks at it before shouting, “Is this how you’re gonna tell him you love him?”

 _No_ , he thinks and he’s imagined it a dozen, maybe a hundred different ways –

It’s always back at that bungalow where they first got to know each other with a plate of Harry’s homemade fajitas and those stupid strawberry margaritas Louis loves to make, a marathon of early Marvel films that they still adore and Niall belting out silly Frank Sinatra songs in the background and their fingers tangled beneath the glow of scented candles because Liam loves idiotic gestures like the kind you see in daft romantic comedies.

And he’s always bravest in these kinds of scenarios, saying those words before Liam even has a chance to and watching the way Liam’s smile diffuses into something abundantly wonderful that it calms the hammering of Zayn’s heart.

But _not now_.

Not when he’s frustrated and a bit horny because he still hasn’t gotten over the way Liam looks in that half-suit or the confidence in his voice when he’s on stage now. Not when Liam is far, far from _single_ or remotely interested in lads or _Zayn_. Not when his hands are trembling and he’s not jealous, not by definition, except he is in the most unavoidable way.

Instead, he says, “I don’t _love_ – “

“Fucking bullshit,” Louis crows, rattling out an angry rhythm to the door.

“ _Lou_ ,” Harry says in that warning tone that almost always tempers Louis’ moods, “ask him does he want any chocolate.”

There’s a patience to his voice that tugs at the corners of Zayn’s mouth and he uses the heel of his hand to scrub away the smile. He bites at his knuckles and swears he just wants to crawl into Harry’s lap, bury fingers in those thick curls and forget how stupid all of this is.

“Harry, I don’t think – “

“But Lou,” Harry starts with that smoky voice, that rhythmic tone that feels so out of place with his dimples and bright eyes and unsteady feet, “chocolate has been known to create comfort and achieving a sense of hedonism.”

There’s a pause and Zayn snorts into the sleeve of his – no, _Liam’s_ – shirt when Louis wobbles out, “What in the actual fuck Styles? Where do you learn this shit?”

“Google,” Harry says nonchalantly and Zayn can almost hear his smile on the other side. “Plus it’s _Hershey’s_.”

“Hazza,” Louis groans and Zayn’s certain that’s Louis’ forehead smacking against the door, “no chocolate.”

Zayn thinks they’re still like kids at Reception, drinking punch and pulling pigtails and chasing each other around the playground until they’re dizzy. Two kids helplessly in love and he smiles at that.

“Is this how you really want to do this?” Louis inquires, a little quieter, gentler like he’s trying to be helpful. Zayn presses back into the wood and shuts his eyes on the _‘Or do you want to do this over eggs benedict at the local Denny’s?’_ Louis adds with one of those silly smirks he wears when telling a joke.

“Or,” Niall offers with a cackle and a thrumming voice, “do you want to tell him on a jet on the way to some deserted beach in the middle of the Atlantic?”

“I can’t swim,” he whispers and their laughter echoes through the door and right into his arteries.

“Or maybe,” Harry suggests, sweet and smug, “atop the Eiffel Tower with the lights of the city lit up and a full moon and a symphony below?”

He regrets ever admitting that to them – and the world over a stupid livestream – and he hates all of them, wholeheartedly. They’re bastards and _awful_ best mates and the best thing to ever happen to him.

“Are you lot quite finished?” Louis hisses, still leaning opposite Zayn against the door and Zayn’s hair is ruined by his fingers, bits of his skin an ugly pink from the blush and he shoves off the wood to run his hands under the tap.

He splashes his face and his hair with water, ignores the cool sting of it running down his neck and soaking his shirt and tries not to glare at himself in the mirror but he can’t help it. There’s circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and stubble scattered across his sharp cheeks and raw lips from apprehensive teeth and there’s no way he looks proper enough – _presentable_ he levers of his tongue – to confess anything to someone as buoyant, endearing, handsome as Liam.

“Malik,” Louis drags out, anxious.

Zayn groans, leaning over the counter and fluttering his eyelashes until they stop sticking together from the water.

“Just leave it, Tommo,” he insists, his voice harsh without meaning to be and he regrets it immediately.

“You’re being a twat,” Louis scowls, kicking the door again before stomping away with Niall’s rattling laughter following his heavy steps and Zayn only waits six whole minutes before he hears footfalls approaching and he’s so convinced it’s Harry that he can’t resist the sigh that brushes his lips or the instinctive twist in his stomach.

The knock at the door is quiet, almost tender and it disturbs everything inside of him.

“Haz, no, I don’t want – “

“Zayn.”

Between his ragged breathing and uncontrollably nervous hands and that certain spark of electricity in his blood, he remembers that song his sister loved. He stares in the mirror and swallows and recites _‘Samson went back to bed with not much hair on his head’_ until he realizes its _Liam_ , not Harry, waiting on the other side of the door for him to answer –

And, no, he’s not a knight in shining anything or a prince charming or any of those silly fairy tale heroes but he’s a _Liam_ and Zayn absolutely loves –

He _can’t_.

“Babe,” Liam says through the wood, the sound nervous and worried but something like a crescendo of _‘hello I’m here for you and you only’_ that Zayn refuses to escape, no matter how much it hurts.

He yanks open the door with only a little bit of hesitance and all of the tight muscles, the stiff bones, the tangled organs relax at the sight of Liam’s crooked smile, the soft light of the bathroom against his face, the loose shirt exposing the line of his neck and Zayn tries to focus on his birthmark instead of the way his eyes shine like they’re just for Zayn.

Liam slides into the small space Zayn provides and shuts the door back and corners Zayn against the basin with cautious fingers lifting to unstick Zayn’s damp hair from his forehead. He thumbs the fringe back into place while Zayn tucks his chin and, unconsciously but very nervously, folds his hands around Liam’s hips.

“The boys,” Liam starts and Zayn groans immediately, the noise abashed and shameful, “nevermind.”

Zayn sighs, shuts his eyes with Liam’s calloused fingers stroking over his scalp and his nerves give way for the sensation that spikes up his spine.

“You look tired,” Liam mumbles and the softness forces Zayn to blink open his eyes, look up through his lashes at white teeth gnawing at a pink lip.

 _You have no idea_ , he thinks but he closes his throat on those words to whisper, “M’fine.”

“Wanna watch all of the Spider-Man films in reverse this time?” Liam offers with a giggle and crinkled eyes and spread lips.

Zayn chokes on a groan and shakes his head instantly. “Not tonight,” he says under a breath, fingers tightening around the bones in Liam’s hip to send a message: _I want something_ more _tonight_. It’s lost in translation or tangled in the wires because Liam frowns a little and nods.

“Right, that was a bloody stupid idea,” he says, waving off the disappointment with a half-smile and, _no, it’s not_ , Zayn thinks but he can’t capitalize on the momentum his heart provides. He can’t shove the words out of his mouth or finally, _finally_ give into his instincts before Liam smiles goofily and pushes all of his hair off of his face.

“Follow me,” Liam breathes, the words embedded in a laugh and Zayn barely notices Liam’s free hand tangling a few of their fingers together before he’s tugged away from the sink, out of the bathroom, through a messy room that’s a hurricane of Louis’ clothes and Harry’s blazers and Niall’s shoes and a big, comfy bed he just wants to crawl into with Liam pressed to the arch of his spine.

“Where are we – “

“Hey,” Liam smirks over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow and trust explodes into Zayn’s nervous system, “just follow, yeah?”

And Zayn does. He follows Liam all the way into the lift and down to the lobby, sneaking past security and huddling in corners until they think no one’s watching. They steal away to the front desk and bribe the concierge – a nice old woman who snaps pictures of them for her granddaughter and they autograph copies of the emergency exit protocol pamphlets for her – and find themselves in a closed hotel kitchen.

It’s _almost_ the right setting – with the dim lights overhead and the silence washing over them like the tide and their hips pressed together as they sit on a stainless steel chef’s table with bowls of chocolate chip ice cream and their shoulders brushing lazily – with _almost_ the right words – he’s been trying _‘our songs aren’t filled with enough lyrics to describe how you make my heart feel’_ and _‘this life seems so ordinary when you’re not around’_ – and there’s just enough oxygen in his lungs to sustain the swell of his heart every time Liam laughs at one of his stupid jokes but something catches in his throat and he just _can’t_ –

And he remembers that Liam’s in love with Danielle and the _‘friendships never survive relationships’_ Danny once told him and they are no Harry and Louis.

They are a warm feeling under the sun, not a fireworks display in a dark sky.

Instead, he lets Liam feed him melting scoops of ice cream while they trade their favorite scenes from _Iron Man 2_ and their knees knock together while Liam hums something quietly under the cold shadows surrounding them. He chews a corner of his bottom lip and Liam is intensely gorgeous under the pale yellow glow from above, with a wrinkled nose and a wide smile pressing color into those bubblegum pink lips and eyes crinkling from the laughter.

He brushes a knuckle over Liam’s nose to wipe away the smear of chocolate, holds onto the _‘and the history books forgot about us’_ weighing down his tongue to focus on the way Liam sighs pleasantly. Zayn’s teeth catch on the metallic prongs of the fork they share – because of Liam’s phobia and Zayn refuses to let the world make him feel bad about it – and his tongue darts out to flick away the stickiness.

Liam watches him, wide-eyed, and their cheeks flush while their lips spill out quiet giggles.

He twists away but not without nudging his elbow into Liam’s ribs to stop the _staring_ and it’s hard for him to escape the fact that Liam’s fingers are still twined with his – even in the dark, even through the lobby, even at the front desk.

 

|+|

 

And it’s not until later, in the same bed, he realizes everything in his life moves quite backwards because you’re supposed to fall in love first before someone can break your heart but Liam – he makes Zayn feel that way: heartbroken just before falling head over heels.

 

|+|

 

It’s almost a week later with the west coast their backdrop and the starry night their spotlight and the hum of the bus in between cities he won’t quite remember – that’s a little untrue because the last city had the kind of beach he pictures Liam lingering on for hours, between the surf and the sand and the rippling tides, and the next city is one he’s so familiar with because of the sunset and the palm trees and the calm of _‘you and me’_ that he’s been considering getting inked to his skin during their downtime. But it’s just another junction between stops and the skyline is so different on the highway but he can still pick out the moon and the purple clouds stirring against an inky black sky.

They’re still buzzing – it’s a _high_ , really, with their skin prickling and their flesh still hot from adrenaline despite the post-show showers and water bottles – and half of them can’t wait for new bed sheets to wrinkle in a posh suite of some hotel they’ll forget in a few hours. They’ve all drifted into their own territories on the bus but they stay so close, cramped into the backroom with Louis curled into Harry’s lap while playing another video game with a shirtless Niall and Liam shoved onto the end and the fading city lights streaming over his face as he gazes out the window. Each of them is a little vulnerable and somewhat quiet but their racing smiles and hazy eyes fight off the sleep.

Zayn’s somewhere at the halfway, on the floor with Niall wedged up against him and Harry’s knees bracketing his shoulders and Louis’ fingers threading through his fallen quiff and one of Liam’s bare feet pushed into his lap. They surround him while drifting on their own current, passing around bags of Dorito’s and stealing each other’s colorful Gatorades and humming along to the Pink Floyd Harry insisted upon. He’s slightly helpless – and voluntarily so – to this _need_ underneath his skin for each of them – for Harry’s cheeky grins and Louis’ constant tales of wanting to smoke California bud like in the films and Niall’s echoing laughter and Liam’s quiet disposition jammed between his aorta and vena cava – and he hasn’t had a cigarette in hours so he’s a bit fidgety and a lot moody before –

He’s still uncertain how this works but Liam’s fingers skim to that soft point behind his lobe and press down just enough to wake the goosebumps under his skin and stop the tremors down his spine and he almost looks back to see if Liam’s smiling down at him but he already knows.

He breathes, instead. Long, deep, almost casual breaths until Liam’s thumb searches for the hole in his cartilage where the piercing used to be.

And it’s been only days since the bandages from his hand have been removed – but not the ones from his heart, not the ones covering the scars from watching Liam with Danielle; cuddling her and touching her and nearly _mauling_ her in front of his four other bandmates. No, those still remain and he doesn’t think he’ll ever love Las Vegas quite the same.

“Die Styles! You fluffy bastard, suffer and die,” Niall shouts with punchdrunk laughter that spills from the back past the bunks and Paul gives them a stern look all the way from the front of the bus.

“You realize we are playing _Mario Kart_ , right Ni?” Harry offers, tongue caught between pretty teeth with a furrowed brow, all of his features set tightly in concentration.

Niall snorts, twisting his snapback backwards until all of the blonde spills from the edges.

“He’s very competitive,” Louis notes in a singsong tone, still sprawled across Harry’s thighs and Zayn’s not quite certain how Harry is still managing to focus with Louis’ free hand neatly hidden between them, the muscles in his forearm shifting like he’s doing something naughty –

Zayn doesn’t want to imagine how Louis is probably managing to get Harry off without Harry breaking concentration.

It’s another aspect of their sex life that haunts him, just outside of that one city where they bought scented bath oils and pharmacy lube and locked the three of them out of the room for exactly _thirty-seven minutes_.

“Oi, how dare you,” Niall challenges, shifting to his knees to block Harry’s view and knock him off course with a strategically slung turtle shell, “You compete at everything.”

“Do not,” Louis argues very unconvincingly.

“S’true,” Liam agrees, still gazing out the window with the shine of his phone screen tinting the tan of his nose. “You competed with me at footy, basketball, swimming, even Monopoly.”

“Everyone competes at Monopoly,” Louis sighs, twisting his arm just a little and the color in Harry’s cheeks and the eye rolling gives him away.

“You compete at foosball,” Niall adds, knocked sideways by Harry’s stray knee. “And shower time.”

“No one takes longer showers than Harry and Zayn,” Liam notes informally, shrugging with four sets of eyes fall on him.

“Didn’t you once compete with me to see who could go the longest without wanking off?” Zayn wonders, tipping his head back to rest on Liam’s knee, smiling upside down at him.

Liam half-attempts to wink and it’s silly, habitually awful and Zayn loves it all the same.

“To which you easily lost,” Louis reminds him, still so smug.

“ _Happily_ lost,” Zayn laughs and Liam makes a face and the sharp angle of Zayn’s cheeks are ruined with blush immediately.

“You compete to see who can get louder in bed,” Harry hums, pressing his smile into Louis’ wrecked hair and his shameful eyes contrast brightly with Louis’ proud smirk.

“Trust me,” Niall groans, almost obscenely but without the credibility he needs, “You never win. Hazza’s much louder and the _‘fuck me Lou, I need it, make me shiver’_ is awful enough, by itself, bro.”

There’s a collision of laughter between three of them – Harry busy nipping at Louis’ neck and trying to lap around Niall on the screen while Louis curls an arm around Niall’s neck lovingly, even if it looked as if he was strangling him – and Niall passes around a bottle of sour apple vodka they stole from security’s hidden stash that they all drink from, except Liam. He stares out the window, thumbs through his twitter feed and texts sloppily with that sharp jawline and lowered eyes and something definably sad stowed away in the corners of his mouth.

Zayn catches the bottle with his chapped lips, watching Liam and the passing sky, and his unconscious fingers map out the tendons in his foot until they tickle the arch and Liam almost jerks away –

Almost but not quite, even if Liam looks startled.

No, he presses his foot farther into Zayn’s palm and blinks down at him before looking away, fingers moving a little slower now with a wrinkled brow and placid eyes.

Niall knocks an elbow to Zayn’s ribs, stealing the bottle and tipping it back for a long swallow. He wriggles his eyebrows at Zayn with flushed cheeks, the back of his hand swiping away excess liquor before he leans in.

“You alright?” he asks with dry lips dragging over the shell of Zayn’s ear.

Zayn quiets a sigh, nods, bites into his lip like he does when he’s nervous – or concerned for any of them, especially Liam. His shoulders lower, still warmed by Harry’s knees, and he watches Niall pass Louis the bottle before he crawls closer.

Niall grins, budges an arm between Harry’s legs to curl around Zayn and his snapback gets in the way when he tries to rest his head on the round of Zayn’s shoulder.

“Gotten over it?” he asks, gentle with that aching smile.

Zayn sputters a noise, looks around quickly but no one notices other than Niall.

“It’s daft,” he confesses, smirks to himself because it really is –

Falling for a mate and bottling it in your chest and watching all of the edges slowly splinter apart.

“But he’s happy,” he adds, lower, his voice scratchy even without the cigarette smoke.

“Of course,” Niall exhales, nail-bitten fingers digging into the material of Zayn’s chinos, “but only when he’s with us. Or with you.”

Zayn scoffs, bumps knuckles annoyingly at Niall’s hip until he groans.

“S’not true,” he argues but there’s no conviction. Just a smudge of _hope_ and he hopes Niall overlooks it.

“Whatever,” Niall chuckles, dragging the edge of his nose over Zayn’s shirt until the bottle comes back around.

He wants to blame the raw taste of the liquor and the way it heats his blood and the thunder of his heart could be nothing more than the effects of it but it’s partially from Liam’s foot nudging over his stomach and the cuff of his jeans shifting up to expose more tanned skin, a screw inked over his ankle, the beginning of thick leg hair peeking out. It’s the way Liam’s fingers replace Louis’ in his hair, an absentminded gesture they’ve done a million times over – because they’re all, alternatively, interchangeable when it comes to touches and cheek kisses and long hugs to calm the nerves – even if Liam still isn’t looking at him.

“S’okay to fancy him, dude,” Niall whispers, a heavy voice filled with exhaustion and electricity because, even in his restlessness, Niall is the life of every moment. “I’m sure he feels the same – “

“Niall,” Zayn warns, shoves his head under the brim of Niall’s hat to scrape the edge of his teeth against the pale skin of Niall’s neck. “Shut it.”

“Quite right,” Niall hums in that dreamy tone he’s adopted from Harry. “I could be wrong. But wouldn’t you hate it if I was right.”

There’s something stiffly thick in his voice – _haughty bastard_ – like he’s figured it all out before any of them ever did.

He can’t linger on it or define it, not over the buzz of the television or the soft moans slid from Harry’s tongue into Louis’ mouth as they snog and spill vodka between their lips. There’s a stray foot – _Louis’_ – against his spine and careful fingers tangling in Harry’s curls and they’re a blur of uncoordinated movements that he misses when Liam slides onto the floor next to him, pushing in close because the room is too small –

And _maybe_ because he likes being this close to Zayn.

Maybe, but probably not.

Niall snickers cheekily, turning his attention to some vintage Al Pacino film he cut on and Liam sighs into the open collar of Zayn’s plaid shirt – the one Liam swears he loves because it makes Zayn look like a _right fit lad_ , twisting fingers against the red and blue whenever he gets the chance just to tease – and his breath leaves damp spots against the line of Zayn’s neck.

“So glad we’re nothing like them,” he says in a rough, gravelly tone that Zayn can’t escape.

It saturates his unbalanced emotions and signals the electrons in his brain and swells the cock in his chinos until the outline is almost visible.

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs, trying to strangle the somberness in his tone, “nothing at all.”

Liam snorts, fingers instantly wrinkling the fabric and fiddling with a few buttons until the pink of Zayn’s chest peeks through. He looks away when Liam blinks up and it’s _exhausting_ is what it is.

It takes too much exertion and concentration and this is what they mean by fucking _will power_.

But he does. He watches Niall slip in and out of sleep and gawks at Louis’ tongue slipping between Harry’s lips and pretends he doesn’t feel Liam’s fingers skimming over his chest to find a heartbeat –

Because Zayn thinks, in this minute, he can’t tell the difference between heartbreak and sudden heart failure.

 

|+|

 

 _Nothing like them_ sticks to his skin and won’t wash off and strips him of survival tactics and when Liam sneaks into his bunk and curls around him with damp eyes, a pink nose, and fingers searching out Zayn’s skin for something to anchor him, Zayn doesn’t ask _why_.

He just curves his wiry arms around Liam’s broader figure and hides his shame in the space beneath Liam’s jaw and listens to him slow his breathing until it’s calmer than early morning waves.

 

|+|

 

Hours later, he still doesn’t ask _what_ put the tremble under Liam’s skin or the salt to his tears or why they spent the last half of the highway drive whispering Justin Timberlake lyrics to each other under the guise of _comfort_.

 

|+|

 

It’s not until after the tour and after the Summer Olympic Games and after his birthday but just before their live show at the Roundhouse, that Liam tells them about the breakup –

And it’s not a roar or an emotionally unstable man standing before them or a _‘win some, lose some’_ admission but Liam looks a little broken with harshly red eyes and a put on lift to his lips for a smile and shaking hands. He’s not full strength, not the first day, and they all crowd around him on instinct with arms linked around his body until the trembles slow and he laughs into Niall’s shoulder, presses a kiss to Louis’ cheek, fumbles twitching fingers through Harry’s curls and fists a hand to the material of Zayn’s shirt to drag him away from everyone who might be watching.

They stand on the roof, not speaking, and the smoke that soaks Zayn’s lungs does little to evaporate the pressure on his stomach when he thinks of how long Liam kept this to himself: for the band, from the public eye, probably for Danielle, to gather his sanity.

They lean over the edge and watch the London traffic and take in the heavy silver sky that’s so close to a downpour and Liam hums a few bars of some Usher tune while Zayn, instinctively, twists his fingers around Liam’s and silently swears to keep him safe from this invading form of self-destruction –

Because he knows it, intimately, and he refuses to ever let Liam see the silhouette of what it can do.

 

|+|

 

Liam scars his forearms with ink and changes his hairstyle until it’s less like Harry’s and more like a premature Zayn and _everyone_ notices it but refuses, absolutely will not comment.

Except Louis, but they expect that.

“ _Liam Payne_ , if your sweet mummy was here with us now and saw you,” Louis starts with a pointed finger directed at Liam as he takes his first sip of a cold beer – and he forgets to mention _his kidneys are fine now_ , like he forgets to mention how he prefers nights out at a smoky club rather than sat in front of the television for back-to-back Batman films or how he vacations in _Florida_ rather than in Spain like they had all planned in the middle of the tour.

“She broke up with me,” Liam hisses with eyes that are meant to be unkind but he’s never been harsh, not even with Louis in the early days. He tightens his jaw and his fingers curl around the neck of the bottle before he continues, “She broke up with me and she moved out.”

It’s an excuse, really, but it works.

Niall squeaks out a noise and Harry pretends yesterday’s newspaper is filled with interesting, embellished stories and Zayn watches from that plush armchair in the corner of Liam’s now half-filled flat. And Louis – he chews greasy pizza and toys with his over-gelled hair and doesn’t say another word.

Zayn studies the way the photo frames are now empty, the furniture bare of frilly tops and knee socks, the scent of the hollow spaces filled with sweaty boy and heady body scrub rather than flowery perfume, the mug near the sink sat solitary without a matching wine glass stained in lipstick like he remembers. It strips the skin of his uncertainty and pushes oxygen into his valves. His fingers flick the flame of his lighter and he observes Liam’s shaky hand pushing through disheveled hair, the slip of sweat down his temple, the way his lips curl distastefully around the lip of his beer bottle.

The clouds outside litter the streets with small raindrops until the city is soaked and it’s such a contrast to the dryness of his lips when he slicks a tongue over them, pushes out half of a smile for Liam when their eyes finally meet –

And it takes seconds, minutes, maybe hours before Liam smiles back but it’s so genuine. It’s so promising. It’s so _them_.

Niall bites on his cherry lips, his nose wrinkling for the smiling he’s trying to repress before he says, “If I start singing Elton John, will you all – “

“Oh shut it,” Zayn groans, tossing a hand over his eyes but his wrist isn’t broad enough to hide his crimson cheeks.

“ – help you with the higher notes?” Louis offers with a knowing grin and Harry aborts a hearty laugh for something sweet and _typically Harry Styles_.

“Only if you cover ‘Tiny Dancer’ and dedicate it to – “

Zayn cuts Harry off with a whine, eyebrows wrinkled and his jaw tight but Liam crosses the expanse of the living room with bare feet and another bottle of beer, flopping into Zayn’s lap just to forget the world.

Louis smirks, hums softly into something that Niall mimics and Harry mocks their harmonies with wild hair and lit up green eyes. Liam laughs into Zayn’s hair and Zayn curls almost instinctual arms around his waist to keep him in place, trying not to mouth _‘beneath the stars came falling on our heads’_ to his warm collarbone but the perpetual fingers that shift over his scalp and the stolen scent of yeast, sour beer fills his senses until he’s not sure if he even knows _this Liam_ –

Not with the new scratched surfaces of skin from the needle, the four chevrons, the tone of his muscles in his biceps, the way he can still feel the bones of his ribs even through his shirt and under the new definition to his flesh, or the shaven hair at the nape of his neck.

But Liam drags slick lips to his temple and breathes out a _‘just you and me’_ to the top of Zayn’s pink ear and Zayn bites down _hard_ on his lip. It takes him just a second – not even that long – before he nods and Louis finishes Niall’s sloppy lyrics with a _‘but they’re just dulled light’_ that Harry latches onto with his voice and anxious fingers down the front of Louis’ shirt –

And it’s so wonderful how they all fit, so far from each other, but still so in tune with their senses until Liam relaxes while surrounded by their voices and Zayn’s cautious arms.

 

|+|

 

It takes him hours to forget the way _‘your hair was long when we first met’_ sits in a corner of his ribs and the shipwreck of Liam dragging himself from Zayn’s lap to answer a call, sneak away to change outfits, and call up a cab for another night in a hazy club without any of them.

 

|+|

 

They all take to crashing at Liam’s flat for the first week under the disguise of _‘we need more lads time’_ that Louis suggests, even if it sounds so unconvincing and Harry snickers into his shoulder while Niall rolls his eyes and calls dibs on the couch first.

Liam doesn’t shove any of them out, even if it shows in his eyes and the strain of muscles under the skin and the way he passes out spare pillows like they’re intolerable children. But he lets Harry and Louis tangle around him the first night and watches _Superman Returns_ with Niall drooling on his shoulder a fortnight later and, when no one is paying attention – which is hard because they’re all watching him so carefully, waiting to repair the cracks in his armor – he curves a strong arm around Zayn’s waist and drags him to the balcony to look down on the city view in silence with their fingers twined and Zayn’s smoke clouding half of their vision.

He lets Harry make breakfast each morning while they discuss song ideas over tea and scrambled eggs and laughs a little louder each day, even when Niall’s jokes get cheesy and Louis’ morning hair refuses to tame, and Zayn presses a _hello_ into the hollow of Liam’s collarbone every sunrise to watch the way Liam’s skin pinks even while he’s sleep. They skip studio time in favor of Halo and Call of Duty and Paul sits with them just so they keep their vocal chords intact, even while spending nights garbling cheap rum and starting up pointless games of strip poker that are really just poor excuses for Louis and Harry to snog half-naked on the armchair.

But it’s on the fourth night, when Zayn’s finally gotten used to the hard surface of the living room floor – even with a pile of blankets and Louis’ soft tummy – and the sharp edge of Harry’s shin under his head that Liam tangles their fingers together after half-past one and stumbles them backwards towards his bedroom. He’s too sleepy-eyed to know the color of Liam’s walls in the dark or the direction of the moon from the window but he fights hesitation when Liam backs him to the bed, where the mattress presses to the back of his knees and his gravity gives out, and sits on the edge while Liam smiles weakly at him.

“Stay,” Liam croaks, his throat dry and voice still ravaged by exhaustion, “stay here for a minute, yeah?”

Zayn nods sheepishly, the bare light from the bathroom soaking the room in faded gold and soft flaxen.

He drags clumsy fingers through his wrecked hair, thumbing over the blonde streaks, and Liam trips into the bathroom, barely nudging the door open before disappearing. The moon tarnishes the sheets a charcoal instead of the usual black and Zayn rubs at his bare chest, adjusts the routine night semi in his – no, _borrowed sweats_ from Liam because they’ve all run out of fresh clothing but refuse to leave Liam alone – joggers until it stops pushing at the thin material of his briefs. He scratches at fresh ink on his shoulder – _‘stop or you’ll ruin it’_ Liam warned him the first day and he smiled so warmly for that dopey expression the other boy gave him – and the wind outside whips something cool into the room.

Liam returns with a lopsided smile just on the verge of embarrassed while holding a pair of shiny scissors and a set of old clippers and a _‘will you do this for me?’_ on his lips.

Zayn blinks up at him, shifts up an eyebrow and Liam swallows something oddly nervous with a shallow breath. He’s teetering on his bare feet like the floor is too cold and almost frowning at Zayn until the corners of Zayn’s mouth tease upward.

“Do what?” he asks with a scratchy, deep voice.

Liam moans softly, shoves his bottom lip between his teeth before replying, “Cut it. Cut it off, for me. Just – fuck, Zayn I need it gone. I need all of this gone.”

Zayn wrinkles his brow once more, catches Liam balancing the scissors and clippers in one hand to drag the other through his raw honey-colored hair, tugging at it impatiently until it sticks up everywhere.

“But Li – “

“ _Zayn_ ,” Liam groans, shoulders lowering, posture setting into something defeated. “I just need – could you? Please.”

The quiet moment of disinclination that tangles around his bones passes so quickly when he catches the hitch in Liam’s breathing. When he hears the dull heartbeat and the way his skin looks so tan but lifeless in front of him –

The way he’s just not _Liam_ , even with the new muscles and defined features and stitched ink.

Zayn nods once, steals the equipment from his fingers before he can falter a smile, and switches spots with him without the clumsy awkwardness that drug them in here. He shoves Liam down with a playful grin and a coil around his spine and Liam grins up at him, a little less broken, until Zayn feels the waves settling around his esophagus.

The room has poor lighting and he thinks the edge of the bed is a horrible spot to shear off someone’s hair but he catches the anxious whine in Liam’s throat when he reaches for the bedside lamp, leaves it off and sidesteps a little to take in the proper glow from the bulb in the bathroom and the risky moon outside. He combs trembling fingers through Liam’s hair and remembers all of those dodgy haircuts his father and Danny would give him as a kid just before Liam’s hands find his hips and press gently enough to ruffle the blood between.

Zayn bites at his lip, tries not to focus on the way Liam’s looking up at him with hopeful eyes or the stain of a birthmark on his neck or the valleys of contorted muscle he wants all around him over the wrinkled sheets he hasn’t slept on yet. He slides between Liam’s spread knees, thumbs his hairline and reaches for the clippers first.

“Remember the time Harry got drunk and went on a bend about how pretty Louis’ eyes are,” he says to settle them both, to dull the buzz of the clippers.

Liam chews and twists that pretty pink bottom lip between his teeth and grins, shutting his eyes as the first few strands fall off.

“Which time?” he teases, pressing his thumbs into the skin of Zayn’s waist.

Zayn laughs, nearly loses his balance but Liam grips him tightly and he cups the back of Liam’s head to steady its placement.

“Each time, mate,” Zayn smiles, adjusts the brackets until he gets a cleaner cut. He pushes through soft hair, fingers fixing it before its stripped away and Liam hums his approval. “Sixteen year old Harry was a disaster.”

“ _Seventeen year old Styles_ was worse,” Liam jokes, deep breaths and nervous fingers tickling Zayn’s skin.

“Ni is no better,” Zayn offers, pushing Liam’s knees further apart to get in closer.

“Remember when he snogged those three girls in a pub back home?” Liam snickers, a thumb pressing deep into the thick heart tattoo until Zayn giggles and bares down on his scalp.

“In the same night,” Zayn breathes, pressing fingers behind Liam’s ear and he leans in so close that the edge of Liam’s nose presses to his sternum.

“And remember Rebecca,” Liam starts but his voice catches, wrapped around something unwanted – _hurt_.

“I try not to,” Zayn laughs lowly, shoves down the _‘she was just a replacement because_ you _didn’t know’_ that he’s wanted to say for years now.

Courage and bravery are still his bane but he blames it all on natural shyness.

He doesn’t believe himself.

“I’ve always wondered,” Liam begins in a soft, soft tone that’s incredibly vulnerable and not what Zayn needs to concentrate on. He needs to fix the lines, the fuzzy bits, he needs to cut through the thick parts at the back but he listens instead with the clippers buzzing against Liam’s scalp.

“Did anyone look at Dani and me like they do with Haz and Tommo?” Liam wonders, tilting his head a little and there’s short hairs caught on his eyelashes when he blinks.

Zayn cautiously brushes them away, dusts the fallen gold from his eyebrows, drops the clippers for the scissors all while Liam traces mindless shapes to the vertebrae of his back.

He swallows and snips at stray patches. He presses a palm to the round of Liam’s shoulder when the other boy falters and swallows something thick –

“They never did, did they?” Liam inquires, the bathroom light tinting his eyes something raw and chocolate.

Zayn smiles down at him, cuts into the hair on the sides. He thinks of Doniya and _‘he told me I was beautiful and came into my bed’_ before he mumbles, “Does it matter?”

Liam grins, shaking his head carefully as to not knock into the sharp metal.

“Guess not.”

Zayn holds onto the _‘oh I cut his hair myself one night’_ that presses down on his tongue like unwritten poetry, hides it behind his teeth, builds steam at the back of his throat and drags a thumb over the prickly edges until he grows accustom to the feel. He shifts around, climbs behind Liam and presses sturdy knees into the mattress to finish off the back while Liam’s hands reach backward like they’re missing the touch of his skin –

No, they can’t.

He strokes a hand backwards over his scalp, waits a moment until Liam’s settled again before adding the clippers again. His knees bracket Liam’s hips and he strokes idle fingers over the top of Liam’s spine and waits for the soft pinks to disappear but they don’t.

They remain like Liam’s abashed and ashamed and delighted all at once.

Zayn leans in, steadies his fingers, studies the shape of Liam’s head with the clippers and there’s a dull giggle from Liam’s lips that covers Zayn’s heart in an aching warmth. He smiles and presses a thumb into the nape of Liam’s neck until the color changes, cuts through hair he doesn’t even know yet.

“You two had better not be using a vibrator in there,” Niall warns from the other side of the bedroom door, his voice sleepy and cracked, his accent heavy until they tease him into poking a pale hand through the sliver of open space to offer them a middle finger.

“ _Use protection_ ,” he calls like a joke but it’s almost a pleased noise that burns against Zayn’s cheeks and makes Liam duck his head.

He finishes the sides and dusts scissors over the back while Liam hums quietly, little movements like he’s too anxious and all of the energy he has on stage is still burned beneath his skin. Zayn snorts and slides down a little, skims chapped lips to the soft of his shoulder. Fingers pinch into his thigh but they’re not a warning – they’re a plea.

“Sorry I’m shit at this,” Zayn admits and he’s not sure if he’s talking about the haircut or the feelings he can’t put into words – but he tries _‘with a pair of dull scissors and the yellow light’_ like it’s a reference to something bigger.

Liam sighs happily, leans back until Zayn’s lips stroke over the side of his neck, scratching fingers at his knee.

“Lou is going to slaughter me when she sees,” he half-jokes, a spare hand reaching up until it outlines the edge of Zayn’s cheekbone.

“You look quite,” Zayn starts but Liam coughs and chokes on a displeased noise.

“Goofy,” he says shyly, rubbing at his head until all of the prickled hair shifts with the pressure.

“ _Beautiful_ ,” Zayn replaces, whispering the word into Liam’s collarbone and they breathe together, in unison, shaky and tortured.

They still against each other with their hearts swaying and melodies riffed through their breathing and Liam turns a little, tilts his head up with wisps of hair on his shoulder, across his collarbone, and Zayn thinks _‘kissed me until the morning light’_ just before he finally latches onto _bravery_ and leans downward –

It’s the sort of kiss that reminds him of primary school – completely elementary with knocking foreheads and wrongly angled mouths and noses brushing and no one’s navigating the ship until they crash together. But it works. It unsettles a fire up his skin rather than down and Liam smiles, bites gently at his bottom lip to say _‘let me try’_ and Zayn willingly follows. He lets Liam press up and soften his lips around Zayn’s until they groan together, growl under pretense and Zayn dusts away the fallen hair while Liam knocks the scissors and clippers from the sheets just to get closer.

It’s far from anticlimactic like he remembers some first kisses being. It’s gorgeous, it’s morning waves and bonfires at sunset and Liam’s rough, careless when he grips Zayn’s hips and anchors him down to the bed but then he’s slow and methodical like he’s the one giving a lesson about losing restraint.

His fingers scratch down Liam’s back, trace the thickness of his spine while his thighs part and Liam fits between his legs like a missing piece. He mouths across Zayn’s neck and none of his words are poetic or depredating but they are _sinful_ and the kinds of things Zayn’s dreamt of hearing during his favorite wank sessions –

The string of _‘want you,’_ _‘fuck you taste good,’_ _‘spread a little more for me, okay?’_ and _‘we can hide the love bites from Paul so let me suck a little harder’_ ink all over his skin and he tips his head back to give Liam more space and his fingers pinch into Liam’s shoulder when he adds the right amount of pressure to his collarbone.

He loves the way Liam becomes pliant when he flicks a tongue at the seam of his lips, the way they part and Zayn tastes the mint from Liam’s toothpaste – _sneaky bastard and his bathroom antics_ – and the quiet whisper of lemon tea still on the roof, the curl of his tongue around Zayn’s. The muscles in his arms strain perfectly as he grips the back of Zayn’s thighs, shoves their hips together until Zayn can make out the outline of his cock in his loose boxers. Their fingers fight over new skin and Liam unsettles a wicked moan from his lips when he bites down over his Adam’s apple, flicks a quick tongue over the stubble to soothe the burn.

“How long,” Liam pants, nosing his jaw and skimming fingers over Zayn’s taut stomach muscles and Zayn waits for it, waits for the moment to collapse, “how long has it been since you nutted off?”

Zayn sighs with relief, sidesteps the disaster because _not now, I cannot tell him how long I’ve loved him now_ fades off.

“A week ago.”

“Liar,” Liam giggles into his cheek, shoves back when Zayn rolls his hips.

Zayn groans, clenches his eyes shut when Liam sneaks a hand between them to palm at his length through the thick material. He stains his pants and circles his legs around Liam’s hips for more control.

“Two days ago,” Zayn confesses quietly, words lifted on a gasp, “in the shower. With your stupid soap and the thought that you might’ve gotten off in there before I got in.”

Liam laughs into his neck and shoves down his boxers, yanks at the string of Zayn’s joggers and pushes them down too.

“In this bed,” Liam moans, fighting clumsily to free himself from restraining clothing while Zayn does the same, “thinking about eating you out. I’ve always wondered if you get loud and hot like you do when I catch you wanking off in a hotel room and – “

Zayn makes a helpless noise he can’t control and smashes his mouth against Liam’s to muffle the rest. He ruts up until the head of his cock shifts over strong stomach muscles and Liam presses him back down into the warm sheets with a smile imprinted on his lips.

“Quite the imagination,” Zayn huffs, sweaty and ruined by the way the exertion of Liam’s muscles stands out against his tanned skin.

“Would you even let me,” Liam wonders, leaning in until their foreheads slide together and their noses brush. “I mean, I know most lads don’t fancy _that_ and I know you’re not a girl but it’s crossed my mind – “

“I’d let you do whatever you want, dude,” Zayn heaves, unsteady hips rocking up again.

Liam grins and prods gently against Zayn until he feels all of Liam’s length, the thickness, the way he knows it would open him so nicely with the right amount of lube and long fingers and the saliva from an earnest tongue and –

He closes his eyes and frees his hand from Liam’s tightening fingers to steal it between them. He feels the curve of Liam’s cock, thumbs back the extra skin and he’s incredibly slick around the flared head.

Liam coos, puts more pressure into the arm keeping him propped up and fucks into that loose hand until Zayn tightens his grip. It’s a dry feeling, rough at first until Liam’s cock squirts out more precome, leaves Zayn’s fingers sticky and lubricated and he smiles into Liam’s shoulder while Liam thrusts uncoordinatedly.

They kiss in circles and navigate through this newness between them and Zayn doesn’t even notice Liam sliding a slick hand between them until their wrists bump and Liam’s got a firm hold of his cock.

“Would suck you and swallow,” Liam whispers against his lips, nipping at his lip.

“And lick me out,” Zayn challenges, arches his spine when Liam’s thumb presses gently under the head. “Shag me in the back of the bus.”

“In that stupid jumper you wear when it’s cold,” Liam hums, dragging teeth under his jaw. “And you could – I don’t know. You could get me on my hands and knees on the studio floor – “

“In a nice bed,” Zayn insists with a calm voice, blinking at Liam through thick eyelashes until he loses some of his apprehension. “In California because – “

Liam smiles and Zayn doesn’t have to finish the rest. He thinks Liam already knows.

Instead, he hollows little suns and dark moons to Liam’s collarbone with his mouth, leaves it red and sharp pinks and listens to Liam’s labored panting above him. He watches the twist of muscle in Liam’s forearm, the way their cocks slide past each other, the quiet view of his own dick peeking through Liam’s tight fingers. He thinks about his nose in those wiry coffee-colored hairs around the shaft with his throat _full_ and licks a line of _‘Samson went back to bed, not much hair left on his head’_ and _‘he couldn’t bring the columns down’_ until Liam keens and freezes over him –

And it’s there he realizes that Liam doesn’t need the hair or the soft face or the _bravery_ written across his skin to be strong.

No, even bare and vulnerable – he’s an anchor and a hero, all at once.

“Would it be wrong if,” Liam pauses, desperate, rolling his hips and Zayn cups an obscene hand to his arse to keep him from moving away, “if I said I wanted it to happen here first. In my bed? Just you – “

“ – and me,” Zayn finishes and Liam’s eyes are blown wide, his bottom lip gnawed swollen just before he comes hot and slick between Zayn’s fingers. It’s a glossy sound, Zayn sliding the foreskin over the thick wetness and squeezing out clear and pearly drops and Liam shudders, _trembles_ like this is the first time he’s tasted nirvana –

And it’s the first time Zayn comes without realizing it, staining Liam’s stomach and his wrist and shivering at the way Liam scratches his thumb nail under the head until Zayn’s hypersensitive and broken in half.

They kiss lazily while recovering, trying to strike a bargain with their lungs for more oxygen. He lets Liam shift him between the sheets, tangle around him like _he’s protecting Zayn now_ and he doesn’t fight him on that.

No, he drags a kiss in that hollow beneath Liam’s jaw and loves the way the muscles collapse around him like the vulnerable waves of a California ocean just half-past dawn.

 

|+|

 

_and the bible didn’t mention us – not even once._

 

|+|

 

It’s a little daunting a few weeks later, when they know each other’s bodies a little more intimately and their joined laughter becomes contagious and they move so smoothly in synchronization on stage that no one else can mimic, and he spends something short of an hour outside his flat with new paintings to finish during their downtime and his shirt smelling like Liam’s citrus body scrub and the clarity smoking used to provide won’t manifest anymore.

And it’s Harry, with dumb curls and shining eyes in the dark and a silly blazer over a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt, who pulls him from beneath the undertow.

“Scary, innit?” Harry asks, leaning up against the unfinished siding of his new house.

Zayn sighs, smoke following the exhale and he twists away to hide his eyes.

He nods and huffs another pull and drags the clouds in before replying, “Was it always like this for you?”

“He wasn’t my best mate when I fell in love,” Harry confesses and it’s the kind of secret they’ve all known but Louis and Harry refuse, absolutely will not admit their feelings to the others.

Not sober, at least.

“What does a lad do?” Zayn wonders, breathing in Liam’s scent because he stole Zayn’s shirt a week ago to walk the streets of London and get mobbed by a dozen fans and smile for each of their pictures in Zayn’s clothing.

Harry grins, slips an arm around Zayn’s shoulders and nudges their hips together.

“Stand proud,” he demands with a tickled laugh, “and don’t forget – we love you two, separate or together.”

“Together,” Zayn echoes and he can’t help the grin on his lips. “S’that what he and I are now?”

Harry nods happily, chokes on the cigarette smoke and the edge of his laugh. “Absolutely smitten for each other.”

“But we’re no Haz and Tommo,” Zayn warns with a scowl and deeply set eyebrows.

Harry barks out a noise and shoves him away with little malice behind his hands.

“No, you are not,” Harry grins. He flicks a few fingers through thick hair and sweeps it off his face before adding in that dragging voice, “But nothing is ever going to be quite as untouchable as our teenage love affair.”

“And twitter is so appreciative for that,” Zayn giggles and they wade in the heavy waters together, Zayn with his smoke and Harry with his perpetually beating heart.

 

|+|

 

When he was ten years old, Zayn stood on a brick to kiss his first girl and he remembers it being horrible and the sticky taste of her cherry bubblegum and all of his mates standing around watching in awe.

When he’s twenty, he stands on the tips of his toes to press a kiss to Liam’s lips and soft hands with calloused fingers cradle his cheeks as Liam bows his head to kiss back. He settles Zayn’s feet to the ground again but Zayn’s still swimming in orbit, still without gravity. Liam smiles against his lips in the middle of Bradford with his family in the other room and a train waiting to take Liam home for a few days before tour rehearsals and Zayn is helpless to that feeling deep in his stomach –

But each kiss feels like a _first time_ and that, in itself, is incredibly poetic.

 

|+|

 

“Remember the first time?”

Zayn smiles against a sharp shoulder blade with his cock teasing the rim of Liam’s slick hole – lube smeared around the cheeks from careless hands and shiny salvia from his tongue and everything flushed pink from his gentle fingers twisting against Liam’s prostate and he’s on display like an expensive porn star and Zayn loves the sight – and Liam croons out a shy note when Zayn nudges just a little.

“Which time?” Zayn asks with a quiet laugh, hands covering Liam’s across the sheets of a new hotel room, their skin slick with sweat from the leisure snogging and the west coast heat and the blowjobs they exchanged an hour ago until Liam was begging and Zayn was coming unannounced down his throat.

“Every time,” Liam teases, shifting his hips backward, arching his spine while Zayn presses down on the dip in his back.

“I do,” Zayn whispers back right into the heart of Liam’s neck, his tongue tasting the salt that shines there. “Which is your favorite?”

Liam grins, ducks his head and gentles out a tight whine when Zayn pushes in. His fingers curl into the sheets while Zayn’s shift into the spaces between. “Every single fucking time.”

There’s a breathy giggle stolen from Zayn’s lips and he moves slow, slow because this is a rarity – Liam offering so much of himself past casual fingering while Zayn goes down on him, the occasional vulnerable moment where Liam lets Zayn lick him wet and needy, those quick and dirty fucks backstage before the show begins or just afterwards when they’re exhausted and Liam takes to riding Zayn into a frantic state he barely recovers from.

But it’s rarely like this: on a bed with posh sheets and the mints still on the pillows and on a day off when they should be _resting_ , not developing new ways to adapt to this _codependency is what it is_ Harry tells them.

Liam falters a bit, pressing a hot cheek to the cool sheets with his shoulders slumped and Zayn adores this view – he takes in the strong line of his back, the paler skin below his hips, the strength in the back of his thighs, the raw muscles on the lower part of his spine. He carefully curves a hand around Liam’s hip, draws him back and it’s worth the whine Liam releases. It sticks to his chest and the set of red lips – he remembers Liam sucking lewdly on a cherry ice lolly for nearly thirty minutes before staining a ruby kiss mark to the center of his chest with a goofy grin and he remembers inking it there the next morning while Liam was still asleep, Louis grinning manically while Zayn hissed in the cold leather chair with a needle to bone – there shift with his heavy breathing.

“Relax,” he warns and Liam does on instinct or maybe obedience because there’s still a shallow side of Liam that likes this –

He won’t admit it, not aloud, but he succumbs to Zayn’s hidden strength and his sneaky ways and his stolen bites marks over Liam’s skin and softens his body for Zayn’s hands whenever Zayn’s eyes go dark.

“Slide back a little,” Zayn instructs, still stroking his hip, still gripping patience like a worn safety belt.

Liam complies and shudders, shoving his moan into the white linen while opening up for the stretch around the middle of Zayn’s shaft.

“Budge up,” Zayn suggests but Liam shakes his head, forces himself further back and the positioning is awkward but they make it work.

Zayn shivers at the press of Liam’s arse to his hips, pinches along his hipbone until Liam breathes out a laugh and nods.

He moves then. He rocks in and out, a cautious rhythm that turns filthy and loud so quickly. And they love the smack of flesh, the wet sound of too much lube, the way Liam’s knees are rubbed raw and Zayn’s thighs jump when he thrusts in hard. They scramble for fingers to link and Zayn bites neatly into Liam’s shoulder until marks remain without drawing blood. He cascades his body over Liam’s and waits for the headboard to knock against the wall, listens for the _‘Oi, you little shits I’m already watching rubbish porn on Harry’s laptop, quiet it down’_ that Niall hollers from the other side before laughing and finding their easy rhythm.

There’s husky breaths and wanton groans that echo off the walls and he wonders if the maid service him them this early in the morning. He wonders if they’ll see the come stains against the ivory sheets or if they’ll spot the discarded latex in the bin –

And he wonders if Liam will whisper to Louis about how Zayn makes him _ache_ like this, how open he still feels, about the times they’ve done this while the others were a few feet away, about how Liam once licked the come out of Zayn’s hole and used it for extra lube when he wanked off minutes later.

He draws in sharp breaths while Liam keens into the sheets with pink cheeks, sweat trickling down his spine. He shoves back, echoes a _‘c’mon and do it proper babe’_ that Zayn smirks at, the sharp sting of his hand over an arse cheek rattling off the walls. He watches Liam’s toes curl and snorts at the way Liam’s such a comical amateur porn show – with the deep sighs and shivering fingers and matted hair along his forehead – but it’s incredibly adorable and it troubles how he associates such a word with a man so offensively handsome.

Zayn tilts his head to watch Liam’s cock swing between his legs, firm and leaking and he bares down on Liam’s prostate – a trick he learned sometime after Christmas and before his birthday and he’ll never forget the way Liam came untouched across Zayn’s black sheets – and Liam stumbles out a plea that Zayn half-hears.

“Right there,” Liam begs, tightening his grip on the linen with Zayn’s heavy breaths in his ear.

“You can come like – “

“ _You know I can_ , you donut,” Liam says a little exasperated but it’s endearing.

Zayn smirks into his shoulder and nods, pushes a little rougher and waits, holds his breath until Liam tightens around him and groans a husky noise that overpowers the way his cock throbs and spills thick lines over the sheets.

“Beautiful,” Zayn says and Liam groans, embarrassed, almost shoves Zayn away but Zayn buries himself deep and pulses hotly for minutes until the condom is full and all he can feel is Liam’s hole fluttering around him and his heart shuddering around the thought of _‘you are my sweetest downfall.’_

He kisses a messy line over Liam’s shoulder and drags his stubble across his neck until Liam gathers his strength to flip them around. They tumble and crash against the ocean of sheets and laugh into kisses and Zayn mutters an _‘I love you’_ that he thinks Liam never hears. Not until –

“If you only knew how long I thought the same thing, babe,” Liam says into the shell of his ear, keeping Zayn close to hide his smile, “Zee, if you only knew.”

 

|+|

 

They’re standing in front of the sand and the surf and under a slow falling California sun and the world seems so far from their feet but right at the tips of their toes. They’re in the middle of another tour in a city they’ll always remember and at the halfway point of a beginning they stumbled upon.

The world is watching them a little closer now – as a band, as a commodity, but especially _them_. Suddenly it’s a little closer than they do Louis and Harry and it’s the most frightening thing but he’s learned how to remain brave. And _Liam_ – well, he’s taught him how to trick the world into believing anything they want about them.

Strong arms are curled around his midsection and Liam’s stubble-stained jaw is on his shoulder and his hair is longer at the top with the sides shaved and this is a Liam he knows now. This is a Liam he wakes up to and falls onto foreign beds with and shares sour candies with while Niall and Harry and Louis fight for their attention.

This is a Liam that he could tell the world he can’t live without.

And when Liam bows in to smudge a kiss to his cheek and smile into the hollows Zayn provides him with the tangerine sun in their eyes, he leans in to kiss an _‘I loved you first’_ to pink lips and it’s not a whisper or a whimper or from far, far away.

It’s right _here_ and it’s where he thought he’d be – with Liam.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's nothing spectacular and probably won't be noticed but this fic meant quite a bit to me for many reasons. Sometimes you fall in love with a friend... and sometimes it doesn't at all hurt in the end. But mostly I just needed something for _me_ and, because of that, I am very proud of this fic.
> 
> Again, sorry if it's not as interesting as the other stuff I write -- thanks for taking the time to read it xx


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